Lie To Me
by FeathersMcStrange
Summary: Ten things you definitely didn't know about Q and probably wouldn't believe if he told you. As for warnings... Uh, well, there is one where you can draw your own conclusions that may or may not be troubling to some.
1. Chapter 1

**So I saw Skyfall recently, and it was my favourite Bond film. Q absolutely wasn't the main reason for that at all. _*cough cough* _Anyway, these are some completely wild ideas that just popped into my head. Please don't flame me if you dislike any of these theories, I'm not asking or forcing you to like or agree with them. **

**Let me know if you'd like me to do expansions on any of these, I've got plenty of fodder to do so.**

* * *

**1) He moved to England when he was sixteen years old. **Not that anyone actually knew he wasn't born there. Forging birth records and other legal documents was child's play for someone of his intellect.

**2) Shockingly enough, Q actually is his legal name.** He's not saying that's the name he was born with (faked documents, remember?) but it was all anyone ever called him, even before he was Quartermaster.

**3) There isn't a single photo of him as a child.** After moving to England and getting his fresh start, he didn't want any reminder of his past life around to haunt him. He destroyed every photo in existence.

**4) Q has a very good reason to be wary of people. **When you grow up the way he did, you learned pretty quick that it's better to be cautious when you're not sure about someone. There are bad people in the world.

**5) Often, he will go days without eating. **It's not that he choses not to, it's just that when you have a job and a temperament like his it's easy to forget. When people get close enough to care, someone will remind him every now and then.

**5 point 5) The same goes for sleeping.** Coming up with new ways to combat viruses and spending hours on end staring at the same set of code, you can lose track of time. His record is six days without sleep.

**6) The age on his documents is a good three to four years off.** Despite being younger than he says he is, he has done a marvelous job of keeping this fact very much a secret. The last thing he needs is to be taken even less seriously than he already is, because of a factor he can't control.

**7) Usually he can get himself together, but there was that time he passed out in MI6. **007 had just returned and they were exchanging witty banter, when the tolls of not eating or sleeping for three days straight caught up to him.

**8) His aim is absolutely atrocious.** Q knows exactly how to fire a gun, but he cannot aim to literally save his life. The only time he's ever hit the centre of a target, it was the target next to his.

**9) Asthma is a serious problem for him.**The truth of the matter is, his medical condition is so severe that he could die without his inhaler. Nobody actually knows this. Well, they didn't until The Incident.

**10) He worries over James Bond, _constantly._**For some reason or other, he just couldn't seem to grasp the concept of being careful. And despite himself, Q has gotten rather attached to this 00. And when the person you've unwittingly become friends with decides to lead a life of reckless abandon, it is cause for concern. So he does what he can, and tries to make sure Bond doesn't get himself killed. It's for entirely selfish reasons, of course.


	2. Nationality

**HarryPotter'sgirl17: Aww! Thanks!**

**Adrian Nox: Thank you so much, I am completely floored. I too find that accurate characterisation seems to be a bit of an issue. If at any time you find me slipping in this, I would greatly love it if you would point out where I've gone wrong and maybe give me a couple pointers on fixing it. If you feel like doing this, I would appreciate it a lot. I think I shall expand all of them.**

**Note: Okay, guys, if you don't like fabricated backstories, skip this one. If you would like to fully understand all references in future chapters, read it anyway. Please don't flame me if my ideas don't match yours. It's just a little plot bunny hopping around inside my head.**

**Enjoy my ridiculous compilation of Q's past.**

**DFTBA!**

**Alice**

* * *

**1)He moved to England when he was sixteen years old. **Not that anyone actually knew he wasn't born there. Forging birth records and other legal documents was child's play for someone with his intellect.

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Quincey Andrew Jameson.

That's how these stories usually tend to start, isn't it?

I suppose, if his life had been a fairy tale, that's how it would have started. But since what you are about to hear is far from a fairy tale, it should start some other way.

On an unremarkable overcast day, in an unremarkable little town, to very unremarkable, average parents, there was born a very special little boy. He had a head of wild black hair and bright, intelligent eyes. He was named Quincey after his grandfather, but since no self respecting boy would go by the name Quincey, everyone he knew called him Quin. Quin was a very smart child, learning to read far before any of his classmates. He was very likeable, and had many friends, just like every other five year old out there.

But everything changed when the fire took his mother away.

Now, what happened next could have gone one of two ways.

His remaining parent, Nolan Jameson, his father, could have stepped right up into the position of single parent. The loss of his wife Helen, the love of his life, could have made him realise just how precious what he had left was, and cherish his son above all else in the world. It could have made him afraid to let Quin out of his sight, made him spend every moment making sure his son was safe.

Wouldn't that have been nice?

Remember when I said there were two ways it could have gone? That wasn't the way it went.

Instead, Nolan decided the entire thing had been his son's fault. This little boy, this child with his wife's hair and eyes, was too much of a reminder of everything he had lost. There was no way he could look at this living knife in his heart without feeling the pain of Helen's loss all over again. So he decided that he would forget this child had ever been _his_ child, and instead treat him as some unfortunate annoyance, foisted off on him by some other parent.

Suffice it to say, Quin's life was not fantastic after that.

In the end, he became withdrawn, keeping to himself and instead focusing on the safe haven that was knowledge. He could learn and learn, and no one would ever tell him it was wrong. People picked on him, seeming to forget the outgoing kid who had been their friend. After everything, he was left with nothing. Well, not really nothing. There were three people who seemed insistent on remaining friends with him, despite all evidence that doing so would not benefit them in the slightest.

There was Mabel and Tyler, the sweet little heiress born with a silver spoon and the boy who was the only person to come close to matching him in intelligence. And then there was Aaron. Trying to compress all of Aaron into one, all-encompassing sentence would be about as futile as trying to make a watermelon the size of a raisin. Aaron Daniels, the blonde boy who would one day be captain of the lacrosse team, was Quin's best friend, without Quin actually having much of a say in the matter. It was nice though, to have him around. Aaron was not the type of person who took well to people picking on his friends. And as he was pretty much loved universally by literally everyone, it was helpful to have that buffer between him and the world.

Things at home didn't seem so bad, and when he turned twelve, he went to a boarding school called St. Michel's, life seemed practically perfect. His drunken excuse for a parent seemed just a distant memory, only needing to be dealt with on the weekends.

Until an angry teenager with a machine gun stole it all from him.

Sixty three students were killed that day, and among them were Tyler and Aaron. Mabel was in a coma, never to open her eyes again.

Once again, Aaron had been the solid shield between him and the world, and this time it had cost him his life. Quin Jameson had come full circle, and everything he loved had been brutally ripped away from him. After all of that, three days later, his father (completely smashed at the time) drove his car off a bridge.

Before CPS could come to take him to a foster home, Quin withdrew as much money as he could with his father's credit card and caught a cab to the nearest airport. He didn't care where he went, so long as he could get far away from where he was. The first international flight was to London, England. He took it, and never looked back.

At sixteen years old, Quin (that isn't his name anymore) was completely alone in the world.

That is, until the day the proverbial men in black knocked on his door.


	3. Rewriting History

**Standtallatskyfall13: Awww! Thanks, hon! **

**PunkVampy: Oh yeah, it was fantastic. And thanks, Thing Two, I appreciate it.**

**alm1067: Why thank you! I'll try not to disappoint. **

**lb016: Thanks! Hope you enjoy this one too!**

**Cael Hunter: I was actually thinking that when I wrote the line. X3 Thanks, my dear!**

**HarryPotter'sgirl17: Ahaha! That little dialogue was wonderful. Hope you continue to enjoy these!**

* * *

******2) Shockingly enough, Q actually is his legal name.** He's not saying that's the name he was born with (faked documents, remember?) but it was all anyone ever called him, even before he was Quartermaster.

* * *

Nobody pays much attention to a teenager sitting alone in an airport. They don't stop and ask him if he's alright. They don't notice the haunted, destroyed shadow in his eyes. People's eyes skimmed right over him, looking through him not at him.

Quin was sitting with his back to the wall, next to the window. There wasn't an inch of the room around him that he couldn't see. On his knees was set the only thing from his old life he had left, aside from the money he had taken. A laptop, the very latest model. The one on which he was currently rewriting history.

As far as the world was concerned, once he saved the changes, he would be a citizen of England since birth, both his parents killed in a car accident. He was now twenty one years old, five more than his actual sixteen birthdays. And his name...

For a long while, the now nameless boy sat there and stared at the blinking black line, indicating that he should type something in the blank box where his name should go. The last name was already filled out (Jones, about as generic as it comes) but the first name... Maybe he should just leave it blank. Leave himself anonymous and unknown, just Jones, alone in the world.

Then he closed his eyes, and the image of Aaron was before him. His hair was sweat damp and disheveled, blood pouring from the four holes in his chest. The white blazer was no longer white but a deep red, and every breath Aaron took was shallower, slower than the last. Cheeks once flushed with happiness were white as a sheet, and his strong, lacrosse player's hand was fragile and weak in the thin boy's grip.

"Please, Aaron, please don't..." he begged, voice shaking and cracked. The blonde's bloodless lips quirked into a smile. "No, please don't leave..."

"Take care of yourself, Q," Aaron whispered, and his blue eyes slipped closed, his life gone with the last of his best friend's shattered heart gone with it.

The twenty one (sixteen) year old without a name opened his eyes, biting his lower lip so hard it bled to prevent the traitorous tears from escaping.

_Take care of yourself, Q._

He looked down at the keyboard, just as the final boarding call for his flight sounded.

One letter, one little letter, was entered as his first name, and he closed the laptop. Pushing his glasses back up his nose and smiling blandly at the stewardess, Q Jones boarded his plane, leaving his old life behind.

"Hello, I'm Amanda!" trilled the over made up woman sitting next to him. He stifled a groan as he shook her hand, bracing himself for the foreseeable future to be filled with endless, mindless chatter.

"Hello." His accent was flawlessly faked, and after several months it wouldn't be a facade any more. "I'm Q."


	4. Pictures To Ashes, People To Dust

**IAmCheeseAndCheeseIsMe: **Thanks, hon! Glad you like it!

**HarryPotter'sgirl17: **You amuse me endlessly. And I'm afraid that isn't in my vocabulary, I show no mercy. Mua ha ha!

**12635397: **Thanks, here it is!

**emJeanie:** So do I. X3

**Prosper-the-XVIII: **I'm pretty excited to write about the Incident. Should be amusing. And yes, M and Silva were really great.

**cjz1996: **Thanks, dear!

**ConfusedSoAmI: **It is rather sad. I know people who do stuff like that. Thanks! I thought it was a good name.

**dyingonaprayer:** Here's more!

**Cael Hunter:** Haha! Half of my thoughts are random letters.

* * *

**So sorry for how late this is, guys. I've been distracted by writing... Well, writing my novel.**

* * *

**3) There isn't a single photo of him as a child. **After moving to England and getting his fresh start, he didn't want any reminder of his past life around to haunt him. He destroyed every photo in existence.

The boy with the new name (and he was a man now, remember?) sat on the plane and looked down at the computer case on his lap. There was a zippered pocket in the top, one that he hadn't noticed before. He reached for it with fingers he would never admit were trembling, pulling the zipper to the side and removing the stack of photographs inside it. Every time he flipped one and saw the next it was like a new piece of glass was jammed into his chest.

Tyler, hunched over his desk working on his homework, flipping off the person behind the camera for interrupting him. Mabel, laughing with her head thrown back, face lit up with joy. Aaron, grinning widely with one arm flung around Quin, who was tucked against his side, shyly smiling. There were their faces, inked onto photo paper, immortal though their light had been snuffed out mere hours previously.

These memories, this harsh reminder of everything he lost... He couldn't deal with it. Q looked down at Quin's face, at how happy he was, at how happy they all were, and wondered how he had ended up here. These happy people were gone, every one of them. And as he stared, transfixed by Quin's face, he realised something. That boy was gone too.

Aaron may have been the one murdered, but Quin Jameson was just as dead as if he had been gunned down alongside him.

And as far as Q Jones was concerned, he was going to stay that way.

That meant these pictures had to go.

The flight dragged on and on, and eventually it felt like he had spent days not hours sitting here, listening to whats-her-name's obnoxious prattle. All the while these pictures were clenched in his hands, small wrinkles appearing from the force with which he held them. When they were just approaching the London International Airport, his nosy seatmate happened to look over and see the picture, of him and Aaron.

"Ooo, who are they? He looks like you, but not, his face is less pinched and sad looking, so who are they? Friends of yours?"

Q stiffened, finally moving, stuffing the pictures back in his bag.

"They died."

"Oh, that's so sad, both of them?"

"Yes."

The way he had snapped at her seemed to get the message across fairly well, and the woman shut up for the first time the entire flight. She remained quiet until the plane touched down, and he never saw her again.

Upon reaching London Q spent the night in a hotel, and stared at the photos for God only knew how long. When he finally managed to tear himself away from the images of his shattered past, he pulled some fancy internet tricks and circumvented about three other offers on a relatively low cost, tiny little flat on the very outskirts of the city. It was barely larger than a closet, but he didn't care. He was all alone, and he didn't need a large place to live.

The truth was, he didn't think he could live in a place bigger than this. He, Q, didn't take up space.

Aaron had taken up space. Tyler and Mabel had taken up space. Their personalities, their lives, had taken up space.

And his, his didn't. So now he couldn't stand to have that emptiness, that feeling that he would never feel okay again, because he had all this space, and nothing to put there.

So he burned the photographs. He burned Quin's life into ashes, taking with it the memories of Aaron, Tyler, and Mabel.

Quin Jameson was dead and gone.

Q Jones wasn't entirely alive either.


	5. What Are You So Afraid Of?

**1265397: He didn't want any reminders of what he'd lost around, so he had to burn all of them. That was the idea behind starting over as Q. Thanks so much!**

**cjz1996: Thanks! I can't wait either. Glad you're enjoying it so far!**

**Wallflower-in-Narnia: I've read stories like that. Thanks for reading!**

**Prosper-the-XVIII: All of the hugs go to Q! Yes!**

**Cael Hunter: Oooo. *goes to listen to that song***

**NewSlove: Aha, my dear, here is an update for you! Thanks for the reviews!**

* * *

**GUYS IT'S MY BIRTHDAY! I TURN FIFTEEN TODAY!**

**Can I have a review for my birthday, maybe?**

* * *

**4) Q has a very good reason to be wary of people.**When you grow up the way he did, you learned pretty quick that it's better to be cautious when you're not sure about someone. There are bad people in the world.

* * *

The question came out of left field, the seventh month Q spent working in Q branch. One day two years after he reinvented himself a knock had sounded on the door of his tiny flat. A group of discreetly armed, large muscled men in dark suits and earpieces had ushered the twenty three (eighteen) year old into a government plated vehicle. The head of MI6 had apparently opted for the 'if you can't beat 'em, hire 'em' mindset, because Q had made quite a name for himself as a computer hacker of unmatched talent. This raised problems for the Q branch, whose job it was to keep people like him in check. Thus, when it became apparent that he was the best there was and there was no stopping him, someone important decided he could be put to good use employed under them, rather than in prison.

Which brings us to where he is now, working in the Q branch (his name had been a great source of confusion/amusement with that one) being asked a question he had never expected.

"Why are you so afraid all the time?"

At first Q wasn't sure they were talking to him. They rarely did. In fact, his existence was rarely acknowledged outside of when someone needed something from him. To be asked a question that wasn't 'what are the codes' or 'when can you have this ready' was somewhat of a surprise.

It was Timothy Grayson, one of the more mean spirited of Q branch's techies. His friend, a man with a soft voice and a kind demeanour who no one could understand hanging around Timothy, tossed one of the Legos he was always fiddling with. It thunked off Timothy's forehead with surprising accuracy.

"Knock it off, Tim," this friend, Noah Smith, said tiredly.

"No, I wanna know. So come on, Jones. Why are you scared of everything?"

"I'm not," was Q's quiet response.

"That's bull." Timothy clapped loudly, mere inches away from the younger hacker's face. The result was a violent flinch, nearly toppling him from his chair. "See?"

"For God's sake, Timothy! Leave him alone!" Noah shot Q a pitying look, eyes making a silent apology for his friend's behaviour.

The subject was dropped eventually, but still the question lingered. 'Why are you so afraid all the time?'

That was a liability Q just couldn't afford. So he holed himself up in an unused air duct beside the shooting range – forever too small for his age – and listened to the gunshots. It was the staccato rhythm of the machine guns that were the worse. Those were the ones that played as a soundtrack to his nightmares, and he didn't know if he could ever be able to stop being terrified of them.

Building a mask to hide this terror looked like the best he could do.

His fear of gunshots wasn't the only problem, though. They weren't the only thing he was afraid of. People were frightening to him as well, for a number of reasons.

First off, he knew he could never let himself get attached to or fond of any of his co-workers. A) they could find out his secret, which would be the end of it and B) look what happened to the last people he let himself care about. There was no way he was going to go through that kind of pain again. He didn't think he would survive a second time.

And then there was his father. Nolan Jamison had left his mark on Q, firmly instilling in him the notion that no one can be trusted; everyone would eventually let him down. Everyone he depended on, everyone who he ever let take care of him had inevitably betrayed and hurt him, time and time again.

_(Everyone except Aaron.)_

_(But we don't talk about Aaron anymore.)_


	6. Too Close To Be Safe,Comfort's Long Gone

**InfinityLessThree: **Thanks, love, for the birthday wishes and the review! I shall keep that in mind. (I liked the Legos bit too.)

**Prosper-The-XVIII: **Aww! Thanks! HUNGER GAMES FAN HI-FIVE.

**GeekyGothGal: **Don't worry hon, things look up a bit fairly soon!

**cjz1996: **I'm pretty excited to write him, to be honest.

**NewSlove:** It would suck. He would be mocked endlessly. Especially with people like Timothy around.

**general zargon: **Yeahhh, I've been known to get heavy... Sure! There could be some, though as a precaution I don't really foray into romance writing. I'm complete rubbish at it.

**Cael-Hunter: **Bahahaha. Since I know you I feel justified in laughing at your letter babble. But still, my condolences for your Feels, dear.

**musoscientifico: **Whoa, what language is that? Thank you so much!

**Guys, there is two drops of the f-bomb here, just as a warning.**

* * *

**5) Often, he will go days without eating. **It's not that he choses not to, it's just that when you have a job and a temperament like his it's easy to forget. When people get close enough to care, someone will remind him every now and then.

**5 point 5) The same goes for sleeping.** Coming up with new ways to combat viruses and spending hours on end staring at the same set of code, you can lose track of time. His record is six days without sleep.

* * *

"How long has he been here?"

"No idea."

"_Why_ is he still here?"

"Don't know."

"When was the last time he ate anything?"

"Do I like like his mum, Ginger? I don't bloody know!"

Q completely ignored Timothy and Noah, who shared his pitifully small cubicle space, fingers continuing to fly seamlessly over the keys of his brand new, top of the line laptop computer. This encryption needed to be finished today. No, better yet, this encryption needed to be finished _yesterday._ He didn't have time to stop. No time to eat, no time to sleep, no time to go back to that puny flat he refused to call home.

Heedless of his disinterest in them, his two colleagues continued attempting to suss out why he was still there, and how long, exactly, it had been since he last moved. Or, well, one of them did.

You don't even get any guesses who wouldn't drop it.

"Jones."

Timothy's voice stuck out obnoxiously from the background hum of the fan belts keeping the computers' harddrives form melting and the tic tic tic of people typing. A second later one of Noah's infernal Legos thwicked off the edge of his jaw, just below his left ear. Q twitched his shoulder, the movement snagging the smooth flow of his slender, pale fingers across the warm keyboard. But still, he made no response.

"Whiz Kid."

That almost drew a reaction. Timothy knew he hated the nickname to no end (judging by Noah's put upon sigh he knew it as well) and was probably using it to try and provoke him. He had an annoying habit of nicknaming everyone he came in contact with, from the girl across the room who brought him coffee sometimes (he called her 'sweetheart' more often than her name) to his best friend, Noah (Ginger, thanks to his flaming hair). Q had been dubbed Whiz Kid within a week of working in between the two of them.

To this day he still couldn't figured out why Noah hadn't strangled his flatmate in his sleep after three years of being forced through monetary reasons to inhabit space less than twenty feet away from him almost constantly.

Turns out, Q had lived about fifteen minutes away from them since he moved to England._  
_

_(shut up, he was born there)_

"Q."

Now, that really did cause him to turn his head away from the glowing screen and tiny letters to stare in barely masked shock. That was one thing the man had never called him.

"You're going to face plant on your keyboard in a second there, Whiz Kid."

"Wh-" His voice was hoarse and scratchy from disuse, forcing Q to clear his throat before continuing to speak. "Beg your pardon."

"You're jittering."

Looking down, Q suddenly realised that he was right. Hovering over the mildly glowing keys, his hands were trembling so hard that one of his nails would occasionally click against the hard black plastic.

"Hey, Q, are you alright?"

Even without looking up to see who it was, the softer, kinder, more concerned tone betrayed Noah's reentry into the conversation.

"I... Um... The encryption needs to be finished there isn't time I have to... The encryption... I've got to keep going there's no more time people will die if I don't I've gotta-"

"Whoa there."

"Slow down."

Apparently, not even aware of what he was doing, Q had shuffled to his feet, papers spilling from his lap in a disheveled heap. His glasses sat crookedly on his nose and his hair looked like it had been put through a windstorm. Noah had a hand on his shoulder, looking concernedly down (haven't we been over his tiny stature before) at the relative-new-guy.

Statistics about blood sugar and sleep deprivation rushed into Q's mind as he sat back down, followed shortly by the memory of collapsing on the floor of his English class when he was fourteen.

"How long has it been since you've slept?"

The suspicious lack of snark in the question surprised him, as it had come from Timothy rather than Noah.

"Um... Four... Uh, four 'n a half days, I think."

"Four and a... For a genius you're a fucking moron, Jones. Jesus."

In the end the two people conversing over the top of Q's head, now resting on the table next to his computer, came to the conclusion that allowing him into a car at this point was tantamount to committing negligent homicide and that it was best to just toss a blanket they'd procured from God only knew where over his shoulders.

By the time he'd awoken, his colleagues had gone, and there was an orange, a sandwich, and a bag of crisps on the table four inches from his nose. The sticky note on them read 'It's just that I'd prefer you didn't pass out from low blood sugar, Whiz Kid, nothing personal.'

Q shook his head, closing his tired eyes tight shut.

He then pushed himself upright and got out of the rolling swivel chair, hand automatically grasping the paper bag tight enough to produce audible crinkles.

_No._

_This couldn't happen._

_They were getting too close._

_If they got close..._

_He was poison._

_Poison._

_Everyone who got close died._

_Everyone._

_Remember Mabel, and Tyler, and Aaron-_

_Shut up._

_They wouldn't want this life for him-_

_Shut the fuck up._

_I can't let them close. _

_Never again._

The paper bag landed in the bottom of the rubbish bin and then there was silence.


	7. Who Am I? Who Are You

**Prosper-the-VIII: **Aww! Thanks!

**Assassin .EzioAuditore****: **Thanks, love!

***crickets* Hello? Anyone still there? Anyone still reading this?**

* * *

**6) The age on his documents is a good three to four years off.** Despite being younger than he says he is, he has done a marvelous job of keeping this fact very much a secret. The last thing he needs is to be taken even less seriously than he already is, because of a factor he can't control.

* * *

It really must be some sort of new record, losing your new assignment literally twenty minutes after you were told about him. And not the kind of record Q wanted in his file. In his defence, it had hardly been _his_ fault (Eve Moneypenny had been the one to shoot the guy, and M the one who had ordered her to), but this was _James Bond._ If he had just worked a little faster, gotten the train's path from the satellite a little faster, predicted that Moneypenny would lose her line of sight… Well, there was no use thinking about it now. He was entirely ready to push the whole incident to the back of his mind and focus on damage control, but the two people who shared his cubicle (apparently despite his recent promotion he had to remain where he could monitor things in Q branch) had other ideas.

"Morning, Whiz Kid. Heard about what happened to Bond."

Q braced himself for some scathing remark from Timothy, but none came.

"Sorry about that. It's gotta suck, losing an agent."

"He wasn't _my_ agent, Grayson."

The abrasive genius shrugged. "Whatever you want to call it. Just trying to say sorry."

And he appreciated the sentiment, he really did. Especially since he hadn't-

"By the way, happy birthday."

-mentioned his birthday.

Shit.

"It's your birthday today, Q?" asked Noah, joining the conversation. The expression on his freckled face was interested, with a hint of concern. Why? There wasn't anything to worry about. Well, as far as Q was concerned. The agency was in trouble, but Noah's look was directed solely at him.

"Uh, yeah," he muttered dismissively, quickly turning away and focusing back on his laptop.

"Well then, happy... how old are you turning?"

"Tw- um. Twenty six."

He'd barely managed to stop himself from blurting out his actual age, and thus giving away everything, but after five years of lying to everyone he met, it was becoming easier and easier to recover from slips like that.

"Wow. And I thought Ginger here was young."

By now twenty eight year old Noah had apparently learnt better than to try and dissuade Timothy from using the nickname, and merely sighed, shooting Q a 'you get used to him after I while, I swear' type look. It was one he got from Noah a lot, but the stated 'getting used to' hadn't happened yet.

The subject of Q's birthday was quickly dropped, as there was a crisis going on and they couldn't exactly afford to take too much time for small talk. Q branch was filled with the clic clic clic of people typing on keyboards, and the hushed instructions sent from one cubicle-team to another. This was the way Q liked it. No nosy questions from Timothy, or quiet concern from Noah. Just him and the task at hand. It was what had gotten him this far, and it would continue carrying him for as long as he could pull it off.

Birthdays _(even birthdays that were Q's, not Quin's)_ were too personal. Too close.

Even so, when the gift card to a bookstore he had offhandedly mentioned he'd liked landed on his desk just before his co-workers left, he almost (_not quite, he wasn't there yet_) smiled.

It was a day of memories.

Memories of the first time anyone had celebrated his birthday, even if it was his new, false one, since... Since it happened. Memories of losing his first assignment before he even met the man, only to have him miraculously return from the dead not too long after. Exchanging smart remarks with this assignment, one unfathomable, smartass mystery of a man who liked to call himself James Bond, as the two of them worked together to save their agency. But this day had more than just memories of Q's life. Quin's was there too. Because that day in the by no means distant past hadn't been Quin's birthday.

But today was.

Today Quin Jameson turned twenty one years old.

He was unusually quiet that day, even for him, and Timothy, displaying more tact than he ever had since Q had met him, picked up on this and (for reasons which perhaps even Timothy himself didn't know) distracted Noah, so the more perceptive of the two had no chance to notice this change in behaviour. James was less... understanding, opting instead to needle him about his pensive, closed look whenever he got the chance. Thankfully, as he was preparing for his next op, that wasn't very often, and thusly Q was able to escape that night with relatively little trouble.

Sitting at the table with one leg shorter than the other three, in his closet of a house, pretending to belong to a world that wasn't his, Q took a moment in all those memories to remember Quin. See, he wasn't that kid anymore. He'd said it before and he'd say it again.

Quin was dead. And Q... Q missed him. He missed all of them.

The match was struck with freezing, shivering fingers and held to a candle. The small flame was the only thing in the room that gave off light, set atop a pathetically small cupcake. Q stared at the fire with a wistful look on his gaunt face.

"Happy birthday, Quin."


	8. Mustn't Let Them See

**NewSlove: **Ah, a very good strategy indeed!

**TrinityCrystalPrincess89:** Awesome! I'm glad you're liking it!

**Cael Hunter:** ...oops? I meant it wasnt' _as sad _as the others.

**HarryPotter'sgirl17: **Why thank you. He quite needs it, I think.

**Guest: **Awwwww! I have the awesomest readers! Thank you so much!

**Assassin. EzioAuditore:** Thanks! I rather enjoy that format.

**Prosper-the-XVIII:** Thank you! Fffffeeeels.

**alm1067:** Thanks for the birthday wishes! Glad you like it!

**Guest:** Here's your update! Lovely little made up word there, dear. *wink*

* * *

**7) Usually he can get himself together, but there was that time he passed out in MI6. **007 had just returned and they were exchanging witty banter, when the tolls of not eating or sleeping for three days straight caught up to him.

* * *

Moderation was something Q had always been good at. He knew when enough was enough and he had to stop before he wound up killing himself. Spacing spending several days sleep deprived with short naps and a constant flow of caffeine was a skill he'd mastered. Surviving brushes with dangerously low blood pressure was child's play. Of course, there was one other factor in Q's ability to maintain the image of a healthy, functional human being, and that was not being too overly distracted by whatever it was that had him up for days on end. And when said task was keeping your assignment alive deep behind enemy lines, it was much harder to do this. Especially when he nearly gets himself killed _six times throughout the course of the mission, and then shot in the shoulder. _By now Q could swear up and down that James had more bullets in him than a rifle clip.

That being said, as annoyed with him as Q was at the moment, it was still a welcome relief when he saw the bedraggled, still bleeding agent saunter into Q branch like he owned the place.

Timothy and Noah were sitting at their respective computers, tapping out sequences of code and bickering quietly with each other over whose turn it was to do the grocery shopping when he reached their cubicle. Q had been all set to go back to his flat and crash, but seeing as he was here, might as well inform him exactly what he thought of the plan _(kamikaze mission more like_) that he had put into action without consulting anyone, resulting in stated bullet in shoulder issue.

"007."

"Q."

"Mind telling me what in bloody heaven you were thinking?"

"Oh I don't know, that maybe the country would appreciate being saved. Something like that."

"Did it ever cross your mind that you could very well have been killed?"

"Believe me, if it had gotten me out of this lecture I wish I had been."

Throughout the entire back and forth exchange, which went on for several more minutes with neither participant seeming to slow down, Q's cubicle mates were turning their heads from side to side as if watching a verbal ping-pong match. Noah was the one to notice it first.

Q was visibly wavering, one hand gripping the three and a half foot high wall of their cubicle so tight his knuckles had lost all colour.

Eyebrows furrowing, Noah elbowed Timothy and pointed at Q's trembling hands. Timothy frowned and opened his mouth to say something to halt the good-natured argument.

Before he could get a single word out, though, he was cut off by James, continuing the back and forth game with Q, a smile on his face. By then it was too late. All of the stress and toll on Q's body from everything that he'd done (and hadn't taken the time to stop and do) in the past few days hit him at once, causing his knees to buckle and his head to strike the desk very hard. James, his quick reflexes and training kicking in, immediately knelt beside the young man lying unconscious on the floor.

_(Stupid.)_

_(Should have gotten home first.)_

_(Mustn't let them see what a wreck you are.)_

_(Mustn't let anyone see.)_

His confused blue eyes blinked up at the three faces hovering over him. Concern was evident on all of them. _That was odd, w__ho'd been hurt?_

"-alright?" James was saying, snapping his fingers a few inches above Q's nose.

"Hm?"

_His head hurt. Why did his head hurt?_

It took a few seconds for the information to process, but Q realised with a jolt that the worry on their faces was for him. They were worried about _him._

_No they're not._

What?

_Q. They're worried about Q._

"I... I am."

"Are what, Q?"

_See?_

_They don't know you._

_No one knows you._

_Well, except-_

_We don't talk about that anymore._


	9. Noah's Aaron

**InfinityLessThree: **Thanks! It's a style I'm experimenting with.

**Prosper-The-XVIII:** Aaron was a huge part of who he turned out to be. You don't just forget someone like that, no matter how much you wish you could.

**GeekyGothGal: **D'awww. You guyssss.

**Assassin .EzioAuditore:** He really does, doesn't he?

**Harm Marie: **Thanks!

**Cael Hunter:** I would ask if you were okay but the point is moot.

**MilleniumHeart974:** Thank you! Here you go, dear!

* * *

**Phew! Almost done! I'm actually considering doing a series of oneshots connected to the end of this, with Q, James, Timothy, and Noah. If you'd be interested in reading them, let me know!**

**Sorry James wasn't in this chapter, but rest assured he features heavily in the last two.**

* * *

******8) His aim is absolutely atrocious.** Q knows exactly how to fire a gun, but he cannot aim to literally save his life. The only time he's ever hit the centre of a target, it was the target next to his.

* * *

On his list of sensitive subjects, perhaps the one that bothered Q the most was the topic of guns.

_(Mabel, Tyler, and Aaron didn't count. For something to be a topic, you first had to acknowledge that it had happened to begin with.)_

_(Say what you will of rivers in Egypt, but he knows – is painfully aware – that as soon as he recognises that it happened, it becomes real. When it becomes real so does Quin and Q crumbles.)_

This is somewhat of an issue for him, seeing as his employer was a law enforcement agency that requires even the most technical, office bound of it's computer geeks to be firearms certified. As far as Q branch goes, Timothy currently held the record. Everyone knew he had brilliant aim, and eventually, once you had known the two of them for long enough, you were treated to the story of how Noah and Timothy had met face to face for the first time. That is where we currently find Q, listening with amusement to Timothy's animated tale.

"-I mean, that's hardly how you normally meet someone. But anyway, Ginger and I met when we both tried to hack the same corporation at once. The little shit was thirteen. Eleven years later and we both and up starting at Q branch on the same day. First time I've met him in person, and there's a group of people trying to shoot us. Of course, he doesn't even have a gun with him, much less know how to use one. So I had to rescue his ass before he'd even worked out who I was."

Sending a glance towards Noah, Q saw him shaking his head in fond exasperation, a small smile transforming his normally solemn, serious features. They each had their specific jobs. Q was the Quartermaster, of course, as of a couple months ago, Timothy worked on writing codes for defense against any up and coming hackers, and Noah... Noah was data input and analysis for crime scenes.

Which meant every gruesome body, every disturbing image, he saw it all. As one can imagine, this didn't exactly leave him the most cheerful of people. Seeing him smile was a nice change.

As Timothy continued to talk about who knew what, the three colleagues were making their way towards the firing range to re-certify. (Coincidentally, the very same range beside which Q had tried to desensitise himself to the sound of gunfire.) He was nervous, as this was the first time he had taken the qualifications. Recertification happened every two years, and so far he had managed to dodge it.

"Ready?" asked Noah, shaking Q out of his thoughts.

"Um, yeah. Sure. I'll be fine."

"Wasn't exactly what he asked, Whiz Kid."

Q rolled his eyes at that comment, thrown in by Timothy.

"I would appreciate it if you would refrain from calling me that demeaning nickname."

"Now why would I want to do that?" asked the taller man in a mocking tone. "When it's obviously so much fun?" Noah shot him a look and Timothy made a face at him.

Yeah, that was one thing Q still didn't understand. How could two people who couldn't get more different _(as different as you and Aaron?) _ be such good friends. At first glance, they had absolutely nothing in common _(name one thing you had in common with Aaron) _but somehow it worked. One time, a few weeks previously, there had been a gas leak in Q's building, forcing him to spend a couple nights in the moderately sized flat shared by Noah and Timothy. His time there had raised his respect for Noah's seemingly infinite patience, and his respect for Timothy in general. He had proved himself a decent person and a damned good friend, and Q was quite impressed.

But that... That is a story for another day.

Right now we follow Q Jones (_Quin Jameson would never be walking towards a shooting range.) _on his path towards the one thing he feared more than any other.

The cold grip was heavy and alien in his hand, weighing him down with what it had the power to do. So much damage for such a small thing... A small, insignificant thing, not unlike the one that had slaughtered Quin's best friend _(his brother)_ right before his eyes.

Then the firing started and Q about jumped out of his skin.

Quickly catching himself, he raised the pistol and blindly pulled the trigger a couple of times. The buzzer sounded and the line of computer geeks removed their earplugs. Timothy grinned with pride at his target, a perfect cluster of three around the heart and one between the eyes. Noah's was significantly less impressive, but still passable. And then there was Q's... Of five shots, only three had actually hit the target, and of those three an impressive grand total of one had hit the actual black outline of the person, right on the edge of the left shoulder.

He left with his head bowed, the gunfire still ringing in his ears. There were three weeks for him to make up the qualifications test. He'd figure out some way to beat the system by then.

Of course, in the middle of the second week, as Q was typing a report on James' latest operation, history repeated itself, just as it had the day Noah and Timothy met. Except this time when the masked intruders opened fire he was sitting in a cafe, working on his computer, because James had noticed that he hadn't left the building for half a week and ordered him to at least go work on his computer somewhere where the coffee was decent and the cute redheaded barista who fancied him would make sure he constantly had the caffeine keeping him conscious. Timothy, who drew entertainment watching Q get flustered over the barista's flirting and wanted to get a bagel, had gone with him. When the shooting started, he pulled out his own weapon, shoved Q under the table with a hurried 'I let you get yourself killed and Bond and Ginger are gonna fight over who gets to decapitate me', and identified himself to the shooters as a member of MI6.

Of course, this did nothing to ingratiate himself with them. But Timothy, being the expert marksman that he was, wasn't overly concerned.

Hiding beneath the table, shame and fear colouring his cheeks a dusky red, Q wondered what the odds were of one person being involved with two separate and completely unrelated shootings. Then he figured in his own rotten luck and decided that for him, the odds weren't all that good for him.

When it was all finally over and Timothy poked his head down to tell him to come out, Q took a good look at him. Timothy Grayson, with his cocky grin and snarky commentary. Timothy Grayson, who had just saved everyone in that cafe.

And suddenly, it all made sense.

_(It was Timothy. Timothy was Noah's Aaron.)_

_(And that realisation, the comparison... it _hurt._)_


	10. Just Breathe (It's Not That Easy)

**Prosper-the-XVIII: I think we'd all like to take him away from it all for a bit. And no worries, I'm sure you're gonna love the next chapter!**

**Harm Marie: Thanks!**

**HarryPotter'sgirl17: There are times when I hate it too.**

**NewSlove: Awesome! So I'll definitely be doing that. **

**Assassin. EzioAuditore: Cool beans! Thanks, hon.**

**So yeah, it looks like there'll be a couple one shots tacked onto the end of this. Hope you guys don't mind. I also hope you're enjoying Timothy and Noah. They kind of weaseled their way in here in a bigger role I originally intended them to have. **

**See you guys soon for the last secret, and hopefully some one shots after that!**

* * *

**9) Asthma is a serious problem for him. **The truth of the matter is, his medical condition is so severe that he could die without his inhaler. Nobody actually knows this. Well, they didn't until The Incident.

* * *

The halls of St. Michel's School For Gifted Children were eerily silent, a stark contrast to mere hours earlier when the staccato beat of gunfire and shrill screams of terrified children filled the air. Inside a classroom there was a large patch of deep red staining the tan carpet. The body which had lain there was now gone, but this is where both Aaron Daniels and Quin Jameson had been killed. The only difference between their fates was that Aaron's heart no longer beat, while Quin still felt pain.

Among it all there was a small plastic inhaler on the floor, spattered with blood and forgotten by it's owner.

After all, the dead don't breathe.

But when a lonely boy starts over again and pretends he's someone else, the one thing from his lost world he can't leave behind are his medical problems.

So Q Jones brought his asthma with him.

_They were fifteen and the world was theirs. Classes prepared for a future bright and hopeful, the memories of changed parents and cloying depression were just that – memories. Aaron no longer feared those minutes Quin spent alone, not as scared that every time he said goodbye would be the last._

_It happened during world history. Quin had begun to breathe heavily, eyes widening in panic, every lungful of air a struggle. Aaron, sitting next to him, was fast becoming alarmed by the labouring breaths of his best friend. He called out for the professor, attention fixed on Quin. Large, strong hands, hands which were shockingly gentle for a lacrosse player, landed on Quin's shoulder and back._

"_Easy, little brother," Aaron murmured as the smaller boy fumbled with his inhaler. Their teacher, seeing that the plastic device wasn't doing much good, was already on the phone with the emergency operator, calling for an ambulance._

"_Breathe, Q. C'mon, you're gonna be okay. Breathe, Q."_

"Breathe, Q!"

No, that voice was different. That wasn't Aaron.

"Start breathing right now or I swear to God I am going to kick your skinny arse myself, oxygen deprivation or not!"

Oh, right. James.

Q opened his eyes to see James standing in front of him, holding him upright by a tight grip on his shoulders. Black fog ate at the edge of his vision as his throat continued to be too tight for air to make it to his lungs.

"God damn it, someone get me an ambulance or a doctor or _something_!" James shouted.

Unfortunately enough, their new location did not allow for ambulance services to get there quick enough to do any good for anyone in critical condition, so they had been forced to employ a team of highly qualified doctors who were good at keeping their mouths shut.

About a minute later, seconds after Q passed out completely, Noah ran over with two of the doctors and a stretcher in tow. It only took a few minutes of oxygen treatment to wake him up, and when did he opened his eyes to find his three friends _(colleagues, they're colleagues, damn it)_ standing around looking various degrees of Sincerely Concerned.

"H... Hi..." Q wheezed out, the word distorted by the oxygen mask.

"Oh shut up, Whiz Kid, you'll pass out again." Timothy's tone was irritated but his expression (the same one he had worn that night when Q had stayed at their flat and Noah's demons had come out to play, but once again, that is a story for another day) gave away his worry.

"Listen to Grayson," James advised. In contrast, _his_ expression gave away nothing, but still, he knew the agent had been scared. It was in the way the knuckles of the hand clenched around the rail of the hospital bed were white, and the slight crease between his eyebrows, fractionally deeper than usual.

Noah made no comment, merely held back, standing a shade behind Timothy. Q had noticed that this seemed to be his knee jerk response to stressful or frightening events. He was painfully shy, and preferred to let Timothy, who was much better equipped to handle the situation, remain a step or or two ahead of him.

_(Didn't you used to do the same thing?)_

(Didn't we already address this? Timothy is his Aaron.)

_(You still do that, actually.)_

(What?)

_(James. You used to do that with Aaron, let him be the one to handle the people, the fear, but now it's James. Now you hide behind James.)_

"Why didn't I know you have asthma, Q?"

For lack of being able to respond using his words, the Quartermaster made a sort of confused humming noise.

"Your file."

Q raised an eyebrow as if to say 'what were you doing with my file', and shot a look at Timothy, who shrugged innocently.

"There was nothing about this in your file. Didn't you tell them when you signed on? Do you even have a prescription for that? An inhaler or something?"

Sometimes he forgot James was a spy.

Another humming noise, this one ambiguous on his end, meant to mean whatever James would take it to mean, with the end result being everyone going away so he could go to sleep.

"We're getting you an inhaler."

That was Timothy, throwing his bit in again. Noah finally stepped forward and contributed to the conversation.

"Tim's right. What if this happens again? You need an inhaler."

_I know, _he wanted to say.

_Please leave me alone,_ he wanted to say.

_I don't want you three to end up like the last people who cared_, he would never say.


	11. Liar Liar, Life On Fire

**Prosper-the-XVIII: **Why thank you! Ooo, that sounds cool. It would suck to be allergic to a medication.

**Harm Marie: **Thanks.

**A. F. WolfSlinx: **I'm afraid to say I've only seen three or four of the films so I don't know all that much. And yes, his fear of flight will be addressed. I'm treating the phobia as if it showed up after he moved to England. Why thank you, love.

**NewSlove: **He didn't end up back at his old school, sorry if that was confusing, he just sort of remembered it while he was having the asthma attack.

**Assassin. EzioAuditore:** Aww, thank you! By the way, your username, Assassin's Creed reference, right?

**HarryPotter'sgirl17:** Not being able to breathe is awful. X3

**So guys, looks like this is the last one on the list! However, I think I'll write a couple of one shots to tack onto the end of this, if you guys don't mind. Would you be interested in hearing some more? (I'm specifically asking if you'd mind my including Timothy and Noah in the one shots. I know add in characters can be a sore subject. If not I can totally just stick to Q and Bond.)**

**10) He worries over James Bond, _constantly. _**For some reason or other, he just couldn't seem to grasp the concept of being careful. And despite himself, Q has gotten rather attached to this 00. And when the person you've unwittingly become friends with decides to lead a life of reckless abandon, it is cause for concern. So he does what he can, and tries to make sure Bond doesn't get himself killed. It's for entirely selfish reasons, of course.

* * *

From the moment he set foot in the room, Q knew something was very, _very_ wrong. He was on high alert already when he saw a group of Q Branch's tech's crowded around a monitor. Today was one of the slow days, apparently. (It was a toss up here, either everyone had eight different projects to work on at once or no one had any at all.)

Heart in his throat, Q approached the desk of Lydia Peters, whose computer everyone was looking at. The title of the article sent him reeling back, unable to breathe.

'Community Remembers Students Lost In Deadly St. Michel's Shooting'

Pulse racing and chest constricting, Q silently read on, to the subject of the news article.

_'With heavy hearts a shattered town says goodbye to Mabel Santiago as the comatose girl's life support is finally turned off after seven years. She was injured in the tragic incident at St. Michel's School For Gifted Children, which claimed the lives of dozens of bright young teenagers.'_

Hand pressed over his mouth, Q's eyes flicked to the photograph on the computer screen, the one of his younger self and Aaron, the taller boy's arm around him and wide smiles on both their faces. The words underneath the picture swam, and it took several rapid blinks to get them to solidify enough for him to read what they said.

_'In relation, the search for Quin Jameson (pictured above left), another former St. Michel's student who vanished just after the shooting, continues. He was sixteen years old at the time of his disappearance, and would now be twenty three. Jameson disappeared after his close friend, Aaron Daniels (pictured above right) was shot and killed by the gunman. He was also friends with Mabel Santiago and Tyler Wong, another student killed. There have been no new leads in the case.'_

"Wow, that's really awful," Timothy muttered, wide grin gone from his face for once. "Wonder what happened to that poor Quin kid."

Q recoiled as if he'd been struck, quietly running back to his own desk before anyone could notice he was there. He opened his laptop, heart racing and breathing shallow. His worlds had collided, and the result was a volatile mix that could end in the spontaneous combustion of everything he had tried so hard to build. He listened to the conversations of his colleagues, most of them discussing the article they had just read. Apparently the seventh anniversary of the shooting was all over the news no matter what country you were in. Tragedies that effected children hit every country, not just the one they occurred in.

And Q had no problem with this, they were things that needed to be acknowledged. But this was _his_ tragedy.

_(Aaron's tragedy.)_

So he shook himself and set his fingers on the keyboard, working on planning 007's next mission. It was going to be a dangerous one, and very difficult to execute properly. There weren't many ways this could end, and most of the options did not look good for James.

But despite the odds was Q Jones, the Quartermaster, and damn it all if he was going to let something happen to this man.

While everyone else chatted with their friends and slowly sipped at cups of tea Q worked, going over scenario after scenario, wondering how he could engineer this in a way that ended with everyone coming out alive. The problem was, most of those options excluded the options that included the mission being a tactical success.

Which brings us, several hours later, after all the other techs had packed up and gone home, to Q, sitting in front of his computer, glasses in one hand, the other pressed over his eyes, wondering how he was going to save James Bond's life before it was even in danger.

"I leave tomorrow."

Q started at his desk, nearly dropping his glasses. Fumbling for a second before managing to shove them back on his face, he whirled around to face James.

"What? We haven't settled on a plan yet-"

"Yes we have. Mallory gave me the orders already. You know the plan as well as I do." As he spoke, James began to walk over to a monitor accidentally left on by one of the cubicle's occupants. Q's heart froze in his chest as he saw whose computer it was and, more to the point, the article still pulled up on it.

_(He's going to find out._)

_(He's going to read that article and then he'll know everything.)_

_(And you can bet then that Noah and Timothy will find out too.)_

_(They'll never forgive you for lying to them.)_

_(You'll be alone again.)_

But right now he couldn't think about the article. He had bigger things to worry about, such as the fact that the so called plan was going to end in James' death. For good this time.

"There's another way."

From where he stood in front of Lydia's desk, staring at the news website page on the computer screen, James sighed.

"There really isn't. I'm going to do it. I'll be fine. You know me. I'm always fine."

"Until you're not."

"It's all gonna turn out okay, Q. You worry too bloody much."

"You're going to get hurt or you're going to die, I know it!"

"Why can't you just trust me?"

"Why can't you just listen to me?"

"There's no point, Q, I'm doing what Mallory says."

"But-"

"No other way."

By now Q was on his feet, standing only about a metre away from James, and they were shouting back and forth at each other, tempers rising and flaring out.

"There has to be!"

"There isn't!"

"If you go through with this, you're _going_ to get yourself killed, _AARON._"_  
_

Silence, as both parties realised what he had just said.

Q stared at James and James stared at Q, both of their mouths open and no words coming out.

"I..." Q finally stammered, trying to backtrack. "I mean..."

"Wait," James said, looking from the picture on the computer screen to the horrified young man standing in front of him. "Holy shit."

"No. Stop."

"You're him, aren't you."

"Please, just stop."

"You're Quin Jameson."

"_Quin Jameson _is _DEAD,_" Q yelled, breathing hard and heavy. His hands were trembling and he dropped into his chair, chin dipping to touch his chest. "He's dead."

James' expression had softened, looking between his young friend and the picture on the screen.

"What _happened_ to you?" he asked quietly, abandoning his place by Lydia's desk and crossing to the chair beside Q's. "Who are you?"

Q shook his head, hands clenched into fists in his lap.

"Nobody. I'm nobody. Please, just drop this."

"I can't. Not now. Not when this is obviously hurting you something awful. Can you tell me what happened?"

He shook his head again, and heard rather than saw James scoot closer. His voice, when he spoke, was kind and coaxing.

"Please. Talk to me."

Silence.

"Q."

Silence still.

"_Quin._"

(He's not leaving.)

(Why isn't he leaving.)

_(He called me Quin.)_

And before he could stop them, the words were coming and it was too late to run.

"When... Um, when I was sixteen someone saved my life and died in the process. His... His name was Aaron."

_(It feels so strange to finally say this.)_

_(We don't pretend we've forgotten about Aaron any more.)_


	12. Best They Hear It From You, Coward

**So this has been really _really_ late, so I'm really sorry about that. It's been a bit of an intense month for me. So... Eh, yeah. Anyway, here's the first of the continued one shot type things that I'm doing at the end of these!**

**Prosper-the-XVIII: **You're very welcome! And I've decided to continue.

**Guest**: Exactly what I decided to do.

**NewSlove:** Haha! Nope! And I'm glad you like them, they've grown on me too.

**Harm Marie: **Thanks.

**Assassin .EzioAuditore: **Awesome! That's so cool! I've finally done it, dear, I've added more.

**HarryPotter'sgirl17: **NO DON'T DIE!

**Cael Hunter:** Lizzeh your reviews literally make my day.

**DerangedOtakuFangirl:** alksdjfasdfldfj thank you so much!

**Guest: **Hi honey! Here's the chapter!

* * *

"You're going to have to tell them," James said one day, as he and Q walked into the cube farm that was Q branch.

"Hm?" Q asked, not knowing what he was talking about.

It had been a couple of months since the truth about who he really was had been exposed, and the longer time went on and James didn't use it against him, the more relaxed and comfortable Q seemed. The matter still remained though, that the way he acted around Timothy and Noah was still the very same way he'd been acting since they'd first started getting close. Nervously happy, but still awkward and stiff, every second spent guarding his secrets close to his chest. Anxiety and fear ruled his life even now, and James hated what it did to his young friend.

"Grayson and Smith," he said, gesturing to Q's section of the room, where his two cubicle mates were already sitting, tossing a crumpled piece of paper back and forth between them and quietly discussing something or other. Or, well, quiet on Noah's part. Timothy's loud, bright laugh rang out across the room, followed by several mildly annoyed glances from the other members of Q branch and a shake of the head from Noah.

"What about them?" (You already know. You know what he's going to say.)

"You should tell them. You know. About... About what happened to you."

(And there it is. You should have known this wouldn't last long.)

"I can't!" Q protested vehemently, eyes wide and pleading with James to understand. "I can't tell anyone, don't you get it? You figured it out on your own and that was bad enough, but... I can't! I just can't!"

"Q you're not happy," the agent insisted, grabbing him by the shoulders and giving him a gnetle shake. "I can see it! And you're not going to be okay until you tell Grayson and Smith and see that they're just as likely to abandon you as I was when I found out! Got it? I'm just trying to help you here. You _have_ to _tell them._ I know it's hard. Believe me, I get it. But they're your friends. We are your friends. And from what I can see, we're all you've got. If you're honest with them now, it will lift a weight off you. Take it from someone who lies for a living."

The technical genius dipped his chin slightly, staring at the floor. He felt James tap the side of his head lightly.

"What's going on in that mind of yours, hm?

"Quin is dead," Q whispered. "Quin is dead and so is everyone who ever cared about him. What does it matter that they know about him, then? Why do they have to know."

"God, for someone so smart you can be so dense sometimes. Because, and I'm only going to say this once, _they love you_."

Looking back up, Q raised an eyebrow at him.

"Oh come on, don't give me that look. Clearly the only way you're going to hear this is if I spell it out very obviously for you. So yes. They do. Grayson's just about as protective of you as he is of Smith, Smith _actually talks to you, _and when was the last time either of them opened up to anyone? People who are alone in the world aren't the best recruits for just field work, you know, where do you think we got them? And they've taken you in. So open your eyes, see what you've got here, and come clean before you lose it. Do you understand?"

Nodding slightly, Q directed his attention back over to Timothy and Noah. Noah had turned back to his work, clicking and typing at his standard issue computer while Timothy, who seemed to have built a catapult type thing out of a handful of his friend's legos and some rubber bands, was firing small, foil wrapped chocolates at the back of his head. Q chuckled quietly, ever impressed by Noah's boundless tolerance for the older tech's obnoxious antics. The laugh quickly faded, though, as he considered what James had said to him.

(You know he's right.)

(They're going to find out eventually. James did.)

(Better they hear it from you.)

"...I don't mean to push you into something you're not comfortable with but- Hey, you alright?"

"Hm?" Q said, startled. James smiled at him and patted him lightly on the back, turning to leave.

"Tell them your secret. It'll be good for you."

Anxiety began to well up in Q's chest as he slowly made his way over to his shared cubicle. Timothy, noticing his approach, fired a shiny green projectile at his chest. He caught it, smirking at the man and dropping into his chair. Noah glanced away from his screen and smiled his usual kind, warm smile.

"Hey, Q. What were you and Bond talking about over there?" Timothy asked, abandoning his catapult in favour of the pinging computer.

"Knock it off," Noah chided. "That's not really any of your business, Tim."

"Nah, it's okay." Q stared at his thin, long fingered hands, tapping the cold surface of the mouse pad as he waited for the laptop to boot up. "He just wanted to check in. Gave me some advice. That's about it."

"Advice?" Timothy pushed.

"Tim!"

"I'm just curious!"

Noah sent Q an apologetic look, which he just waved off.

"I'll tell you later," he said, feeling slightly sick to his stomach.

The day dragged on and he continued to think about what James had told him to do. And he knew the man had been right. He had to tell them. Those two had opened up and let him into their incredibly tight knit little world, and they deserved to know who he really was.

Finally, the other members of Q branch who had work that day started to filter out, saying their goodbyes and heading home for the night. Noah had an especially heavy load to complete though, so he remained behind. Timothy stayed with him, as he was his ride. It would be a little ridiculous for the two of them to drive separate cars to work, given that they worked at the same place and lived together. Q stayed too, hands trembling slightly as he silently and covertly pulled up the article he had seen up on Lydia's computer the day he had called James 'Aaron'. When at last the final person had left and the room was empty and eerily quiet, he cleared his throat, swallowed hard, and spoke.

"Um, I have... I have something to t- to tell you guys. I... Uh... h-haven't exactly been, um, been completely honest with you."

Noah closed his laptop and turned to him, as did Timothy. The redhead looked concerned, and even his normally crass best friend had a hint of worry in his face.

"What's going on, Q?"

"That's... Um, that isn't really m-my- uh, my name," he stammered out as quickly as he could, swivelling the screen so they could see the article. "Uh, th... This is... Um... I..."

Two pairs of eyes were staring in wide eyed disbelief, flicking back and forth between him and the article. Understanding dawned over them both at once. Timothy was the first to react.

"Wait one bloody second," he said, Irish accent thickening as his voice rose. "You're... That's _you_? _You're _that kid the American police are lookin' for? That's _you_?"

Biting his lip hard, Q nodded.

"You've been _lying to us _this _entire time?_ What's _wrong_ with you? You could have just _said something_ you _bloody idiotic-"_

"_Timothy!" _Noah interrupted sharply, elbowing him hard. He had seen Q's expression. The way he shook, and the tears welling in his eyes as Timothy yelled didn't escape his notice either. "That is _enough_." He turned to Q. "I... I'm sorry about Tim. He doesn't think. You... Help me understand. Why would you lie to us?"

By now Q was out of his chair and backing away from the two of them, ready to take off running. "I had to," he said, voice barely audible. "If you found out what happened... Who I was... You have to understand, Quin is dead, his life is over, I'm not _him_. Aaron..." Here he choked, unable to continue. Q turned and made as if to leave, vision blurred by water, the first drops slipping out and sliding down his cheeks. His hands, balled into fists, shook violently no matter how hard he clenched them.

"Hey," Noah called after him. "Stop. Please, stop." One of his hands reached out and caught Q by the arm, pulling him back around and into a warm, gentle hug. "It's okay. You're okay. We're here, kid, we're here. It's okay." He kept repeating those words as Q stood in his embrace, frozen where he was, unable to comprehend what had happened.

(Why isn't he yelling? Why isn't he angry?)

_(This is the first time anyone has hugged him in seven and a half years.)_


	13. Have Yourself A Merry New Beginning

**So here you have it guys, perhaps the first hap[y-ish thing I've written in this series! Wow. Be impressed with me. And yes, it is absolutely nowhere near the holiday season but just, you know, bear with me. It makes for a good story.**

**(Considering doing the next one set before this one, the first time Q stayed at Noah and Timothy's flat. How about it guys, would you like to find out a bit more about them?)**

**I also don't know if Harry Potter themed Scrabble exists, but if it doesn't, it damn well should.**

**HarryPotter'sgirl17: **Hopefully this one will be less killing!

**Harm Marie: **Thanks, honey.

**Guest:** Aw, thank you!

**NewSlove:** That they definitely are. Thanks!

**Prosper-the-XVIII: **As you wish!

**DanelleSephton: **O.O WOW HONEY YOU FLATTER ME ENTIRELY TOO MUCH IT'S NOT _THAT _GOOD! But thank you so much for your lovely review, it completely made my day. I hope you continue to enjoy this!

* * *

It was Christmas. The eighth Christmas since he had lost his world, and the first since he had built it back up again. The nagging voice in the back of his mind telling him that it was only a matter of time was still there, but as long as he didn't listen to it, it didn't matter. As long as he had that sarcastically reassuring voice on the end of the comms link, he would be okay. As long as he could go to work every morning and see Timothy and Noah already there and waiting for him, arguing over things that were quite honestly hilariously domestic, such as whose turn it was to do the grocery shopping and who had used the last of the milk and forgotten to tell the other guy, he would be okay.

(Honestly, by now he had given up trying to understand the two of them. They were polar opposites in every way, and yet you rarely saw one without the other. Timothy dated frequently, all over the map, one night stands and steady romances, while Noah was clearly more interested in computers than in romance. Timothy was loud and obnoxious, Noah polite and quiet. Even their looks, with Noah's bright red hair and Timothy's dark brown.)

(Yeah, there was no solving that one.)

(Best not even try.)

_(Sorry, where were you?)_

(Christmas. Right.)

About halfway through the day (they got off early, it being a holiday and all) Timothy whirled around in his seat.

"You're spending Christmas with us this year, Whiz Kid," he announced point blank. Q blinked at him in confusion.

"What?"

For three years running, an invitation had been issued to Q, saying he was welcome at their flat for Christmas dinner (which he assumed would be some sort of instant meal, given neither of them could cook). He declined each time, making up some sort of plans. This, however, sounded rather more like a statement of fact than an invitation.

"Well this time I'm not taking no for an answer. Look, I know you're on your own, and me and Ginger already roped Bond into it, if you'd go so, there, you're going."

Noah, taking a break from rapid information input and flexing his fingers (Q noticed this because of the way the light glinted off the black ring on his right middle finger), turned around to face the two people he shared a cubicle with.

"Tim's right, Q. Nobody should be alone on the holidays, and it's not like you've never been to our flat before. Come on. It'll be fun."

It took several more minutes of persuading and cajoling before Q finally gave in and promised to come that night for dinner.

The day crawled by with no major national incidents or urgent catastrophes, for which he was grateful. James had just returned from an assignment two days previously, and in Q's mind this would be far too soon to send him out again. By five he was out of the building and on his way to do some extremely last minute shopping for the Christmas dinner that night. The problem was, he had absolutely no idea what to get anyone.

In the end, he went with a good, safe standby. Coffee mugs and an inside joke inspired Harry Potter themed Scrabble.

(The mug sitting on his desk, with the Scrabble letter on it, was a present from the two of them upon hearing of his promotion. James liked to make fun of him for it, but he quite liked it.)

(And then there was the conversation on which of their co-workers belonged in which Hogwarts house, and let's not even get into that now.)

By the time Q arrived at Timothy and Noah's flat, James was already there and Chinese takeout was on the way. The three of them were talking and laughing when Q walked in, carrying the coffee mugs (carefully selected for each of his three... his three friends) and board game wrapped in shiny silver paper that crinkled when he moved. There was a Christmas tree in the corner, probably Timothy's doing going by the massive amount of twinkly lights covering it (the man was hugely fond of twinkly lights, for whatever reason).

"Hello," he said, suddenly self conscious when the conversation stopped and everyone turned to look at him.

"Come sit down!" Noah invited kindly, gesturing to an armchair.

It was the best night of Q's new life.

The best part, however, came after everyone had eaten and begun to settle down. The Scrabble game lay abandoned and half finished on the coffee table, and cups with various levels of tea in them were scattered on every surface. Noah emerged from his room, carrying something book-shaped, though from the way he carried it, like it was something precious, indicated to Q that it wasn't just any book.

"So, uh, Tim and I have actually been working on this for a while," he said, sitting next to Q and handing him the thing. He opened it up and stared at it in shock, mouth open and eyes wide.

"We noticed you didn't have any pictures of them," Timothy added, shuffling nervously, which was rather out of character for him.

Q made no response, still staring at the photo album, and the first picture in it. It was the same photo that had been in the news, only this one looked glossy, purposefully printed on nice paper. Aaron and his younger self smiled up at him as he flipped the pages, accompanied by Mabel and Tyler. The four of them at Tyler's debate competition. Mabel's fifteenth birthday party. Aaron's lacrosse games. The photo album was completely filled with long gone pictures of the lives he had lost and the one he left behind. It must have taken hours to find these, and God only knows where they had gotten some of them.

Timothy, Noah, and James had all gone silent, waiting for his response.

After what seemed like a lifetime, Q tore his eyes from the pictures and looked up at his friends. The new family he had found for himself, a thousand miles and what felt like a thousand years from his old one, from Quin.

He didn't know what to say.

He didn't have the words for what he needed to say.

It didn't matter.

One look at his face and they knew.


	14. Nowhere To Hide (The Demons Are Inside)

**Harm Marie**: Thank you.

**Guest me: **Aw, thanks hon!

**Guest: **Thanks!

**DanelleSephton: **Hi again, and thank you!

**Blairx6661: **Yeah, I get that, and I probably should have used the, but I worry about overusing unusual punctuation, and... Eh. Thank you!

**Prosper-the-XVIII: **Thanks honey! You're very welcome!

**Writingperson: **So yep, I've already addressed all of this with you in private, but one more note, I don't know if that was poor wording or you've misunderstood, but while everyone is free to interpret this as they pleased, it was not my intention to write any sort of pairing at all. **In fact, that is probably I should point out to everyone, so here, guys. Read into it whatever you please, but I tend to write gen. **

**HarryPotter'sgirl17: **Your reviews never fail to make me laugh!

**Cael Hunter: **Yep, that was the intention! Blurring lines, happiness, etc.

**helenofargos: **Hello there, dear! This is the chapter that tells that story, yep! Thanks, I'm quite happy with this little sandbox myself. I'm glad others are enjoying it.

**Well hello there, guys. I know, I know, slow updating. Bad author is bad.**

**It looks like after this there'll be about one or two more chapters, unless I happen to get struck with the Asteroid Of Inspiration all of a sudden. Anyhow, hope you enjoy this oneshot!**

**Also as a note: This takes place before he is Quartermaster, so he hasn't actually met James yet. Fear not, for our favourite double oh plays a large role in the next one!**

* * *

The last thing Q wanted to do was spend three days living with two of his coworkers, but what with the gas leak in his flat and the lack of anywhere else to go, Noah and Timothy were the only option. Neither of them minded (in fact it was Timothy's idea) but still, Q felt uncomfortable. It was like he was invading their lives, disrupting everything.

The work day itself was uneventful.

(Or, well, uneventful by Q branch standards. Four server crashes, a near deployment of an electronic missile, and a small fire was tame for them.)

When their shift ended, Q followed his two f-

(Stop it. They aren't your friends. You didn't come here to make friends.)

His two _coworkers_.

He followed his two coworkers out to the car, listening with a small smile on his face to their near constant stream of quiet fighting. Anyone who didn't know them would have assumed that they hated each other. Never in a million years would you guess that they were best friends, not from the way they talked to each other eighty percent of the time.

However if you knew them like Q knew them, you would hear the lack of actual anger in the words, the absence of venom in the insults, and the warmth and affection in their eyes. As we've already addressed, Q had long since given up trying to understand that particular dynamic, so he settled for laughing at the various conclusions people jumped to.

That evening passed without any major catastrophe, and Q slept as well as could be expected, given the circumstances. The second night he spent there however was much different.

To start with, the day itself was tense, long, and stressful. Several bloody, vicious murders had been linked, targeting people higher and higher in the governmental food chain and their families. A serial killer was roaming the streets of England, leaving a trail of bodies in their wake. And, given that Timothy's area of expertise wasn't needed, and Q was on another assignment at the time, the only person in their cubicle to be dragged into the mess was Noah.

Noah, who did crime scene and victim data input. Noah, who had barely said a word since the first gruesome image had appeared on his screen.

It was not a good day.

By the time their shift was done, the sun had gone down and Q was getting tired. Even Timothy was subdued, worried gaze tracking over to his best friend every few moments. A couple of times he tried to draw the younger tech into a conversation, but Noah's responses were short and vague. The look in his green eyes was tired and haunted by the images he had seen that day. His face was pale, his hands shook slightly, and Q was worried.

(He wished that the redhead would _say_ something, tell him or Timothy what was going on.)

_(Hypocrite.)_

(What?)

_(You've got issues out your ears, _Quin_, where do you get off wishing Noah would talk to you.)_

(It's different. Noah is different.)

When Noah left to go get something to eat from a vending machine, Q tapped Timothy on the shoulder to get his attention.

"Hey, is he alright?" he asked in a low voice. Timothy looked him over appraisingly before replying. Not directly answering his inquiry, but Q could tell from what he said that no. Noah was not alright.

"Looks like tonight's going to be bad. Just... I've got him. Sorry you have to be around to see this."

(See what? What was going on? Was something going to happen to Noah?)

He got his answer that night.

Round about half two in the morning, a sound woke Q from his rather uneasy sleep on the worn couch. For what could have been minutes or even mere seconds he lay there, staring at the chipped paint on the ceiling. Then a second cry reached his ears. It was the sound of someone gripped tight inn the arms of a terrible fear, or agonising pain.

The whimpers from what Q had identified as Noah's room died off, quieted until he could no longer hear anything. On the opposite side of the room, the door through which Timothy had disappeared earlier opened.

"How long?" Timothy asked, sounding fuzzy, half asleep, and concerned. "I don't have time for this, Q, how long's he been like that?"

"Uh, not long?"

"You don't breathe a word, got it? This shouldn't have happened while you were here... Just keep quiet about this. He doesn't need anyone insisting he needs help."

Bewildered by the whole situation, Q nodded uncertainly, and with that Timothy took off towards Noah's room. Q followed him more slowly, unable to reign in his curiosity. He stood in the doorway and, as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, took in the scene playing out before him.

Timothy was sitting on the edge of Noah's bed, speaking to him softly. One hand lay on his friend's shoulder, grounding and restraining him until he was calm and coherent enough to understand what was going on. Noah lay wide eyed and agitated, jerking and looking around wildly, as if fighting off some invisible assailant.

"You're okay, Ginger," Timothy said patiently. "It's not real. You were dreaming, it was just a dream. You're in our flat. You're safe. Everything's okay. Shh."

Noah said something too quiet for Q to hear, mouth moving quickly and frantically. Timothy patted his shoulder and looked towards the door.

"Yep. Whiz Kid's just fine. Little nosy, but he's okay. Go to sleep."

Another inaudible inquiry.

"I'll be right out in the living room. If you start screaming again I'll come wake you up. No, it's no bother. Oh shut up will you, do we have to go through this every time? I wasn't sleeping anyway. Look, if I didn't want to be here, I wouldn't still be here, would I? Go to sleep, Noah."

It occurred the Q that this was the first time he'd ever heard Timothy call him by his name. He stayed silent and watched as Noah stilled, his eyes closing. Timothy's face adopted a self-satisfied look, ruffled his shock of bright red hair and stood up, shaking his head. He raised an eyebrow at Q, still standing in the doorway, and motioned for him to head back out into the living room. The older tech followed, quietly closing the door behind him.

"What just happened?" Q asked, eyes tracking Timothy as he dropped into an armchair by the fireplace.

"He... Sometimes what he does, it catches up to him. Day after day he sees those images, and that isn't the kind of thing you can just forget as soon as you turn your computer off. God knows I couldn't do his job. We all show up for work and spend hours knee-deep in the darkest, most depraved corners of the human race, and he sees all the worst bits displayed in graphic, full colour pictures. Ever since they had someone cataloguing bodies and crime scenes, connecting whatever dots were there, we close far more cases. But it takes a toll, and that's what you just saw."

(Sometimes he reminds you of some of the agents you've met.)

(Sometimes he reminds you of stories you've heard. Stories about Bond.)

_(Most of the time though, he just reminds you of Aaron.)_

"We're lucky, actually," he continued. "They're a lot worse sometimes. There have been times when it took me forever to get him out of the place his mind goes on a bad night."

"How do you two even _work_?" Q found himself blurting out, his mouth moving without his mind's permission. "How do you even get along? You're so... different_._"

Timothy grinned widely.

"You know what, Whiz Kid, when I figure that one out I'll be sure to let you know."


End file.
